Slower is faster

"Slower is faster," said the guitar instructor. He then elaborated.

"Take that bit you are trying to learn.... Set your metronome to an ungodly low speed. Slow enough to make your bones ache. Then learn to play to that tempo. When you get that down, move the metronome up a notch - a small notch. Wash, rinse, repeat."

I am taking bass guitar lessons. My instructor takes the "choose a song and we will wrap the first few lessons around it" approach. So I chose 'Money' by Pink Floyd. It sounded nice and easy. What could go wrong?

My fingers didn't know how to move like that.

Then I remembered: "Slower is faster."

40 beats / minute. It took a few minutes, but........

Cool - got it.

40 goes to 46 goes to ... 50 - 56 - 60

This took about 20 minutes.

Somewhere around 60 I decided to see what the real tempo was.

120

fuck

So, in an act of bravado, I cranked that metronome to 120 and let her loose.

I hit more than I missed. It was good enough you can actually tell what I was playing. And - this is the kicker - there was space in this for me to see where I needed to tweak things and get a better sound.

..and it got better as I went on....

Slower is faster, people. Slower really is faster.

Underwear

Go grab some underwear. Not the ones you are wearing right now - please.

Where are all the seams, tags and other little bits that stick out and become a nuisance? On the 'inside'.

Why?

I wear my underwear inside-out. You should do the same.

Home

We bought a house.

North Ogden, Utah. I plunked down a bit more than 10 grand for a down payment. Then I committed to 400 a month for the mortgage. In exchange for that? A tiny bedroom in the basement. Sharing a bathroom with nasty, nasty teenage boys. Some office space - sort of. And a broad covered back porch, opening to a wide back yard, overseen by an elevated deck. And it is mine - all mine to do with as I please.

Enough maintenance and improvement projects to last my remaining years.

I think I got the better end of this deal.

Muh-yah-ha-ha-ha.

Renewal

It is that time.

The Supreme Ritual

93, y'all

This last weekend, I was a participant in The Supreme Ritual, as performed by N.O.X. Oasis of the O.T.O.

The Equinox of the Gods.

Were you a fly on the wall, you would have equated the event as something of a Keystone Cops movie. At least at first. (Things changed.....) There was a rather animated discussion about just WHO was supposed to be WHERE and WHEN, doing WHAT.

The discussion ended. Black tape on the floor marked the positions of the participants.

The ritual began.

For my part, I had well memorized a few essential parts, and delivered them rather well. "Thou who art as an hawk of gold......!"

Not to be an asshole, or to take away from the contributions of the group, it was when I delivered that line that things turned.

Gads - it was a ritual. It really was.

93 93/93

There was once a woman...

There was once a woman. She allowed me to share her bed three times. The first two times, we had sex. But that doesn't matter. The third time - that is what matters....

When we approached the bed, we both knew that she and I would not have sex - make love - that night. Nor in the future. Yet each of us removed our clothing, slipped between the sheets, then curled into the body of the other. Loreena McKennitt played softly from her computer, as it had in the past. And, also as in the past,  I had free reign - my hands could, and did, roam as they willed. As she slept, my fingertips said a final goodbye to each and every part of her.

Why, after these years, do I think of this?

I don't know. But of the women that I have had the pleasure to love, she stands out.

Every man and every woman...

93

In the philosophy of Thelema, the focus is on the Will of the practitioner, and the accomplishment of the Will of the practitioner.

There are times when this "Will" takes the form of providing support for another person, so that they might realize their Will. (A less than elegant version of this is presented in "Diary of a Drug Fiend".)

This is a good place to be. I take joy in the Will of my brothers and my sisters, my partners and my friends, and of my offspring.

So mote it be.

93 93/93

Fr Wombat

PS - Kawasaki Ninja 250.....  Good choice!

Yeah.

It's been quiet for a while.

On the 4th of August I will be taking my 4th degree and PI initiations at Golden Lotus Oasis. It will be, to say the least, instructive.

But in the midst of this long silence, life has been mostly good. I have been thrown a few curve balls (thank you, Summer and Melinda). But I have also been allotted a few pleasures (Summer [again], Melinda [more than you know - along with that gruff dude what you call your beloved], Shannon, Warren, and the 'Rising Generation' at Horus Oasis).

And there is - as ever - Kat

Hell.....

Hell is reserved for those who turn aside from their appointed paths.

Heaven is an illusion - pure and simple.

Purgatory is the home of the enlightened.

Reality is.

Take wing, y'all...

No matter how many birds are caged, a million more shall fly.

In response to a message from a friend.

Retail Theft

Today, for the third time in recent memory, I engaged in a form of retail theft. But it wasn't my fault. Really.

About a year ago I was at Wally-World getting a few things for the car. I was in the self checkout and had finished scanning all the items. But the kiosk refused to take my credit card. My frustration was mounting and I was searching for a minion to help me with the problem. Just as I caught sight of a minion, some sort of alarm went off. As soon as it did, the well trained minion scanned the checkout kiosks and, seeing me, ordered me out of the store. My response was to point to the stubborn kiosk, explain that I just needed to complete paying, and I would be on my way. Nothing doing. I was sternly informed that the noise from above was a fire alarm and I needed to get out NOW.

Fine. I grabbed my bag of not-quite-paid-for items and marched out the door.

Then about a month ago, at the same location. Two places ahead of me in line, a gentlemen wanted to purchase some odd looking bunch of ...something... from the produce aisle. The tag on it wouldn't scan. The cashier then looked in a binder and, finding a code, entered into the workstation. The code was invalid. He repeated this process a number of times, as the clock ticked away. Finally, the customer informed him that he really didn't want that bunch of greens so badly and maybe he would just pay for the items that DID scan and get the hell out.

My purchase included two identical clothing items, sort of bunched together. The clerk, not noticing this, scanned them as a single item then bagged them. I counted this error as just payment for the time I just spent languishing in line and smiled my way past the error.

Today I was passing the baking supplies when I spotted a two quart bottle of Millers molasses. There was no price tag on the shelf, so I didn't know how much it was. But I know I needed a bottle for an upcoming batch of beer and added it to the basket. When I tried to check out, at the self-serve kiosk, the bottle wouldn't scan. I signaled the nearest clerk and told her my problem. After three failed attempts to manually enter the UPC code, she finally entered the magic code to override the system. She then entered a price of $2.50, knowing it was low, and smiled at me. I checked later, and this product sells online for about seven dollars.

No guilt.

Creaking of Hinges

Stay tuned.

Really......

Killing the dog that killed Charlie

So - here's what went down.....

From my early to late teens, there was a family dog named Charlie. He was a cute little mutt, about the size of a large cat. And - in fact - he liked cats. One or two of the family cats got along with him, and they were often found sleeping together - curled up in an adorable cross-species ball. Other cats knew not how to deal with Charlie. They left the marks of their displeasure as scars on his cute little "rubber eraser" nose.

When I was in Middle School, he knew my schedule. Walking home from school, I would find him waiting at the corner of our block. We would then race to the front porch. As time passed, the number of races I won increased.

When I was a high school student - when dinosaurs roamed the earth - there appeared in the neighborhood a bitch who was in heat. She was a larger dog. Among the males who presented themselves as suitors was a son of a bitch about the same size as the bitch who was the center of attention. Competition ensued.

This mongrel bastard - spawn of satan dog - chose to deal with Charlie by taking him in his mouth, biting down hard, and shaking him.

While my father took Charlie to the vet, I went on a motorcycle ride - to collect my thoughts. Charlie was to die a few days later. We didn't know that yet.

Later that night, my father and I spotted the offending S.O.B. in the neighborhood. I loaded up the Rugar Nylon .22 and and we gave chase. With - at least to begin - my fathers blessings.

We found the S.O.B. in the back yard of house that my father owned - a rental property that I was later to buy from his widow. At the same instant the word "No!" came from my father's mouth, I pulled the trigger. And again. And again. Until the rifle jammed. I heard a yelp, indicating some measure of revenge, but the dog escaped.

Fast forward a month. My father, serving as a judge for the Utah 4th Circuit Court, is hearing the case of a man charged with having a dog running at large. In his defense, the accused states the following: "I was sick and tired of dealing with that dog, and was ready to put him down. But someone saved me the trouble. He was found dead - shot with a .22 - at the intersection of 600 West and 100 North."

At this point, The Honorable E. Patrick McGuire complemented the accused on his proper attitude, dismissed all charges, and prayed to heaven that the man before him would never learn that it was his son that had killed the dog.

Stalag 17

I was Eugene Heschle's paperboy. [Hope I spelled his name correctly.] I knew the following things about him. 1. He was in the Wehrmacht in WWII. 2. He lost a leg in battle. 3. After recovering, he was assigned as guard to a prison camp. 4. He converted to Mormonism and immigrated to the U.S. - not necessarily in that order.

One night, when delivering the Provo Daily Herald to his home, I heard two sounds emanating from the house. First, there was the television show Hogan's Heroes playing. Second was the sound of Mr. Heschle laughing his ass off.

35 years later I still smile when I think of it.

Let it rain

When a single small blessing falls from the heavens, we call it a miracle and pray for more. When a billion small blessings fall from the heavens, we call it rain, and wish it away.

I was awakened at five o'clock this morning by the sound of rain. I thought of my car. When I parked it in front of the house a scant three hours earlier, I left the windows cracked. I smiled, turned over, and returned to a peaceful sleep. There was nothing in the car that wouldn't survive a shower or bath. I've driven with a wet butt before and lived to tell the tale.

Last night, a friend sent me a text message telling of an art project she is undertaking. She is decorating the fence that encloses her small back yard. About 7:30 this morning, I took a walk to check it out. She only lives a block away. The rain was still coming down. Hard. I dressed in pants and an undershirt, with no thought for the weather. I left my head uncovered. It was my intention to get soaked to the bone. I succeeded.

During my walk, a recalled a similar walk many years ago. Kat and the kids were out of town, leaving me alone. It was late summer. It was a warm steady rain, at sundown, following a thunderstorm. Wearing shorts and sandals, I walked to the parking lot of a local restaurant (now The Discovery Academy). Standing near one of the storm drains, a felt the warm water washing over my feet. It was like baptism. Would you rather have your sins washed away by the chlorinated waters of the duly registered 503C tax exempt corporate entity, or by the warm waters of the summer rain that are also carrying the sins collected on the asphalt, in the guise of dirt, dust and oil? I presently walked back home, into the back yard. I spent a while laying on the trampoline, in the dark, nude, wishing the rain would never end.

Walking back home this morning, I passed Kat's place. I saw something under my daughter's car. Trash? Pieces of the car falling off? Wait - this is a Camry. God drives a Camry, and pieces don't fall from God's own car. What I saw was birds hiding from the rain. They were waiting for the weather to clear so they can pillage cherries from the tree in the front yard.

As I climbed the steps to my house, I remembered scenes from a few movies where rain played such a role. A scene from The Crow - "It won't rain forever." Purple Rain by the artist formerly (and once again) known as Prince.

I have bathed myself in the billions of small blessings fallen from heaven, and I am renewed. I am reborn.

---

I spoke above of leaving my head uncovered. About six months ago, a stopped cutting my hair. Two months ago I started covering my head. These two things are connected. It is a spiritual thing. I only uncover my head for a few things: sleep, personal ritual, making love. This walk in the rain was personal ritual.

The wind that blows in the new day

Back when I was younger, and when I was more wise in my foolishness, I would sometimes stay up the entire night with a few friends. This usually happened in warm weather, and most of the time was spent outside.

One night - or rather one morning - at about 2:00 AM, a breeze blew in from nowhere. It disturbed the still of the night just enough to be noticed, moved a few leaves around on the lawn, then went away. It was a magickal moment. All three of us noticed this breeze. I turned to Rick and Kathleen and said, "It just blew in the new day." The gave me a blank stare. "That breeze - it just blew out the old day and blew in the new day."

They smiled and enjoyed my whimsy. But the few times since then that we stayed up through the night, about that same time of morning, a breeze always came up. It interrupted the still of the night, moved a few leaves around on the lawn, then went away. And, without speaking, we all agreed the new day had arrived.

Top

I have a friend who is a top. We will call this friend X. X is 'managing' a person we will call Y. Every once in a great while, I will be present when X mentions the need to send a message to Y lifting and/or imposing punishment and/or reward.

I mention this because whenever I am privy to these moments, I get jealous. This sort of play doesn't appeal to me. I am not drawn to it. I would not enjoy it. But I still get jealous. Why would I react this way?

Then it occurred to me. Y is getting attention. It is simply the craving for attention, regardless of the nature of the attention.

This is so revealing. It explains so much about myself and about the humanity that surrounds me.

Cowboy Up!

Been neglecting the blog for a while.

Been dealing with depression.

Things gotta change.

Gonna deal with depression in a different way.

"Never give up. Never, ever, give up."

The Disposable Wombat is going to kick some ass, even if that ass happens to be his own.

Thirteen minutes and twenty-three seconds

Last night, I overheard conversation where my nephew mentioned that he did a 1.5 mile run with a time of 13:30. I broke in and said, "Well I can do that!"

This morning I realized I needed to put the money where the mouth was and prove the "I can do that."

I arrived at the Provo High track a little after noon. It was covered with snow (thin packed layer). This means two things. First, I will not run as efficiently as on clear track. Second, I don't know where the lanes are, so I won't be running the inside lane. But I hit the start button on the stopwatch and took off.

On the fourth lap I dropped the stopwatch and had to go back and retrieve it.

So - with all of that, my final time...

13:23

Not bad for a 49 year old dude with bad knees and an Irish build.

A word on Prophets

A few of my close friends have recently be delving into Crowley's commentaries on the second chapter of "The Book of The Law." For them, I offer the following (from Zen Buddhism - The Selected Writings of D. T. Suzuki).

It is a great mistake to think that any existent religious system was handed down to posterity by its founder as the fully matured product of his mind, and, therefore, that what the followers had to do with their religious founder and his teaching was to embrace both the founder and his teaching as sacred heritage - a treasure not to be profaned by the content of their individual spiritual experience. For this view fails to take into consideration what our spiritual life is and petrifies religion to its very core. This static conversation, however, is always opposed by a progressive party which looks at a religious system from a dynamic point of view. And these two forces which are seen conflicting against each other in every field of human activity weave out the history of religion as in other cases. In fact, history is a record of these struggles everywhere. But the very fact that there are such struggles in religion shows that they are here to some purpose and that religion is a living force; for they gradually bring light to hidden implications of the original faith and enrich it in a manner undreamed of in the beginning. This takes place not only with regard to the personality of the founder but with regard to his teaching, and the result is an astounding complexity or rather confusion which sometimes prevents us from properly seeing into the constitution of a living religious system.

So....who shall join the battle and rescue the Religion of Thelema from the sins of its founder?